Leave Me Here to Linger
by an-extraordinary-muse
Summary: They say your life flashes before your eyes, but fifteen hundred years is a long time. At the end, his thoughts are full of the same thing they always are: Diana.


_**Author's Note: I actually started writing this before episode 8 aired. I absolutely loved this scene in the book, and I had a feeling that with the time constraints of the show it would be rushed. There are some references to what happens in the book, but it's a bit of a blend between the events of the book and the show. You don't need to have read the book to understand what's happening.**_

 _ **Also, I read the quote below and it made me think of Matthew so much that I had to include it. I used it as inspiration when I was writing.**_

 ** _Disclaimer: still not mine._**

* * *

 ** _"Most days I am a museum of things I want to forget."_**

Unknown

* * *

Matthew did not think of his childhood often. He had more memories of the time than one might expect, given the virtual eons that he had lived, and he greeted each of them fondly whenever they made themselves known. That was not the same as thinking about his childhood, however; he thought about his past in many ways, at different points and times, but rarely of his childhood.

Ysabeau had told him stories, though. She'd resorted to them often in Matthew's tumultuous first days of his new existence, and at the time he'd thought she was simply reaching for anything that would distract him and occupy his mind. Now, so many years removed, Matthew thought perhaps she was trying less to distract him and more to remind him of who he was – of the humanity that still existed in him, somewhere.

As a result, Matthew knew that he had been a gregarious child. Always underfoot, with his nose in everything and a burning desire to learn – to know.

"You were a builder," Ysabeau had told him, "right from the beginning. You have the ability to look at something and see what it could be, rather than just what it is."

For a long time after Lucas's death, Matthew had wondered if his own precious son might have been a builder as well.

And, oh, how Matthew had tried to build! Families, and bonds, and a reputation; everything that was buildable Matthew had devoted his nearly eternal life to. He'd had some successes – and some spectacular failures.

One of which had just ripped him apart.

Matthew was no stranger to death. He had died the day Blanca and Lucas had taken their last breaths, and again on the rough paving stones outside of his church, and again and again a dozen unforgettable times after that. He imagined himself an old friend of the reaper, and perhaps even the devil as well.

This was not the same. This was the first time in all of Matthew's collective deaths – or near deaths – that he had something to live for; this was perhaps the only time he could remember kneeling at the reaper's feet with more reason to stay than to go.

That reason was somewhere above him, a tiny blonde fireball of determined courage. Even now Matthew could distantly hear Diana battling Juliette, and even as his blood raced away from him and into the dirt, he could hear it screaming to go to her. Diana was somewhere out there, in danger, and though his will did not falter, his body was broken and could not obey.

Fifteen hundred years of existence – of life, though it hadn't always deserved the term – and all of his cursed, preternatural strength … wasted. Here he was again, helpless as death reached with unforgiving fingers for the one that he treasured above all else. And Blanca, sweet natured and gentle as she had been, would always be Matthew's first love and the mother of his son. But Blanca was not Diana, and to have and then lose her so quickly … her, and everything that their future together promised …

Matthew fought and begged and demanded, but his muscles only twitched in response. He tried to call out, but his throat was closed tight. _Do not take her_! He imagined the gossamer stroke of threadbare clothing brushing his cheek and wondered if he would glance up to find a hooded figure above him if he could. _Do not take her!_ Matthew implored the reaper. _Stay with me; I am ready. I will go, if only you leave her._

So much of his miserable life had been spent chasing just this moment. Matthew had ploughed into battles with nary a care in the world, half convinced of his invincibility and half challenging death to take him at last. He had ended the lives of so many, on the battlefield and off, that surely, he must appear to God as Lucifer's own scion. To have survived all of that only to meet his end now …

That would be bearable as long as Matthew could die knowing that Diana did not.

Ysabeau had told him that he'd been born a builder, but Matthew had long since recognized himself as a destroyer. Could he but die knowing that his infernal legacy had not touched Diana – that the one beautiful, unblemished thing in his world would survive in all of her challenging glory, then it would be worth it.

 _Please_ , Matthew begged, _please not her_.

"Matthew!"

He could barely breathe, and he was colder than he could ever remember being. The world above him was distant and out of focus, but it cleared slightly when Diana came into view above him. She was frightened, but her face was the most beautiful thing Matthew had ever seen. Someone else was speaking – Marcus, Matthew thought – but he didn't take his eyes from his love. She was alive and whole, and though Matthew hadn't thought so in too long to recall, maybe God had heard his prayers after all.

"What do I do?" Diana asked.

She was probably asking Marcus, or whoever else had come to help her, but Matthew was able to push the words out of his decimated throat. "Will you hold me?"

Diana was so small. Matthew's nerve endings lit with pain as she dragged his much bigger frame into her lap – into her arms – and Matthew was so grateful that he bit down the pain. Here, at last, he could meet death with more than resignation. Here, at last, he could share some of the courage that Diana so thoughtlessly wielded.

He closed his eyes, cold and tired in ways that he could remember being only once or twice before. Diana pressed her lips to his – they were always so much warmer than his own, but now they burned – and spoke from a great distance.

"Stay with me, Matthew."

"I have searched for you my whole life." The words ached and tore at him, but she needed to know. Matthew could do nothing more for her now.

Matthew had few clear memories of falling to his death outside the church. He remembered the pain – not clearly, but in the instinctive way that all minds simultaneously cling to and forget that which is traumatizing – and he remembered the panicked exhilaration of the fall as the ground rushed up to claim him. Ysabeau, too, was a clear recollection, though what she'd said was not.

He had hated himself when he'd woken to a new life and realized just what he'd agreed to. For centuries he'd wondered why such a choice had been given to him – why God had allowed such a thing to happen – and if it was some kind of punishment. Maybe purgatory wasn't a place, but a prolonged life and the inability to move on from the world; the curse of being just outside of everything, but unable to move any closer.

Now, in the haze of between, Matthew felt that maybe he'd received his answer. He had been searching for Diana thousands of years ago. Perhaps God had simply given him the chance to find her by prolonging his life.

Maybe Diana was the reason, and he'd simply been born too early.

There was nothing above him now. No light, no Diana. There was only a quiet darkness and the sense of a nebulous presence beside him, waiting.

A sudden flash of light lit the back of his eyelids, and then an overwhelming smell of something … exquisite. Honey, and a hint of flowers, and hope.

Hope?

Then, out of the pit within him that dark beast woke and knew. Life was within his grasp, the sweet pulse of it just at the apex of nearly dead lips. He struck.

The first delicious tang of life passed his lips and burned all the way down his throat. Flashes of life came with it, blurred and disoriented: a dark man, a pale woman, the scent of old leather. The part of Matthew that was still Matthew lurched in horror, but the monster in him didn't flinch. He was saved. More than that, he felt the satisfaction of finally possessing that which he'd constantly craved, and continuously been denied.

But there were more images, kisses and the soft press of skin and piercing blue eyes. _I love you._

 _Diana._

Matthew rebelled, and his body finally obeyed. The world snapped back into position around him in blazing colors and blinding light; already he could feel his tattered skin knitting itself back into remembered patterns. All of that was lost to the sight of Diana, bloody and unresponsive where she lay sprawled over him.

Matthew swore darkly. A golden shield shimmered in the air around them and fell, and the air filled with the sound of yelling.

"Diana!" _He_ was yelling. "Christ, how … Marcus!"

She didn't move even as Matthew scooped her into his arms and cradled her. She was covered in blood, his and hers alike, and for the first time in his preternatural life Matthew's revulsion outweighed his infernal need. Diana had been perfect mere moments ago – had it been only moments? – hale and whole, and now …

He had ripped her apart just as he'd always feared he would.

Was he destined to destroy everything he sought to build?

"Matthew, you have to let me get to her."

He hadn't meant to keep Marcus from her. At his son's words, Matthew loosened his arms enough to let Diana roll slightly toward Marcus. A harsh intake of ragged breath drew Matthew's attention upward, and he found himself staring into the horrified faces of Diana's aunts. The anguish and hatred swelled in his chest, a poisonous wave that choked and taunted him.

 _What have I done?_

"We have to get her inside."

It was ill advised and foolish after everything, but Matthew ran. He clutched Diana tightly to him and disappeared into the house as though he, too, could time walk. Upstairs was the only place he could think to take her but laying her in the bed they'd shared with such love left a bitter taste in his mouth. In his mind, Diana was flush and aroused beneath him as he pressed a kiss to her stomach; in reality, she was white with blood loss and unconscious as he settled her against the pillows.

By the time Em and Sarah had joined them, Matthew was pacing at the end of the bed while Marcus and Miriam worked to repair Matthew's handiwork. He was full of rage, barely contained, and unaware that he was muttering to himself until a warm hand grasped his bicep.

"Matthew, stop," Em murmured.

Matthew turned tortured eyes on Diana's softer aunt. Sarah swept around them both to go to Diana's side, her face drawn and set.

"What can I do?" Sarah asked Miriam.

"Emily …" He could think of nothing to say.

"Diana chose this."

"She didn't choose to die!" he snarled.

"She chose to save you," Em replied with painful tenderness.

The weight of it bowed Matthew's head. Diana had chosen to save him, but if it cost her too much – if it took her from him then her choice would be in vain, because Matthew would not choose another existence without her. He'd meant it when he'd said that without Diana his life would be over.

He could survive the loss of her, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't bear to.

"What have I done?" he asked of no one.

"What she knew you would," Emily countered. "What she wanted you to do."

"We need blood," Marcus announced. "Diana has lost too much, I need an IV."

"The hospital is down the road about seven miles," Sarah supplied. "I'll go."

"No," Miriam said. "Marcus and I will go."

Only when they'd gone did Matthew approach the bed. Sarah watched him mournfully from her spot near Diana's head; Em whispered something about tea and retreated downstairs.

"Sarah," Matthew started.

"Don't."

So, Matthew chose his spot on the other side of the bed and cradled Diana's tiny hand in his own to wait.

Wait, and ignore the presence in the far corner of the room that was neither human nor creature but watched them as though it had some claim on them; on Diana.

Diana was his, and if he'd ever possessed any talent to build, he would rebuild this.

Matthew kissed her knuckles, warmer than his own skin but cooler than they should be. "I'm so sorry, _mon coeur_ ," he whispered, and hoped that she heard. "Please forgive me."

Diana did not stir.


End file.
